


just here with my friends

by smokebomb



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Flirting, Friendship, Gen, Hanging Out, Kissing, Multi, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:33:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22827979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smokebomb/pseuds/smokebomb
Summary: Moments from a night out with some Dumb Loud Attractive Idiots.
Relationships: Everyone/Everyone, Nezu | Piers/Sonia (Pokemon)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	just here with my friends

**Author's Note:**

> After roughly ten goddamn years since last writing any fic (RIP old LiveJournal), *this* is apparently the fandom to wake it back up. Life is truly a mystery. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> This is not a beginning-middle-end story, more of a grouping of bits & moments from a night out with this crew. I just wanted to start playing a bit in this head canon I have for them-- that familiarity / history of friendship + all being young, successful, and attractive = touchy-feely close friends who love each other lots and flirt and are probs DTF. (Even though nothing salacious happens in this particular outing, but NEVER SAY NEVER)

They fill space together in every direction, out, across, up, bags and jackets pegged up or at their feet, limbs settled round their usual hightop, voices overlapping in a routine round of delighted and loud and foolish.  
Sonia smiles into her gin rickey, pleased, breath fogging the glass. A few long weeks, stretched late with overtime hours, are bouncing back to normalcy— “lab’s got no off-season,” she reminds them. She’s treated herself to a new no-chip manicure, a reward for staying productive. It’s obnoxiously, joyously neon-bright, with small slices of accent color. Nessa snatches up a hand when she reveals it, fawning, demanding they go together next time, stroking over Sonia’s knuckles beseechingly. Milo requests her other hand to inspect, his own folded almost double around her thin knuckles, gentle, not quite knowing what he’s looking for but admiring all the same. He pops a kiss on her thumb, decrees them “wicked”, and releases her arm back to her, verdict delivered. 

Piers has a few rinds from others' drink garnishes scattered around his beer. Sonia pulls the lime wheel from her glass and sets her elbow on the table, holding it over to him. He obliges, biting into it while she holds the rind, decides to be a brat and grinds his teeth into the slice so juice dribbles over his bottom lip and down the meat of her thumb. "Oi." Sonia spares him a glance, brow cocked, rubs the wet heel of her hand up his cheek in retaliation as he grins, resting her forearm across his shoulder and turning back to Nessa. She splays her free palm wide on the tabletop, flat, shifts weight in her hips, arches out of a slouch into a pulled stretch, rolls her shoulders forward. Her collarbones pop sharp divots in response, each a small well of shadow at her throat. A few eyes drop to them, make their way back up to her face at varying lingering speeds. She’s got a black top on, u-neck, long-sleeved, unremarkable but for how she fits it. Raihan always insists she looks like a goddamn dream no matter what, platonic ideal of Sexy-Girl-Next-Door and genius besides, no brain left for the rest of them, and has on one memorable movie night occasion conducted loud and shameless at-length contemplation with all present on the merits of being choked to death by her thighs. 

**

“…and then she looks at *me*, like I can somehow fix this, and now *I’m* part of this right royal fuck-up—“ Nessa peals a helpless surprised laugh, cuts into Milo’s story. Milo leans in, resettles closer over the hightop, smile slanting in the satisfaction of entertaining with a good yarn. Raihan clutches fingers of one hand around Milo’s wrist, thumb pressing into the moles at his knuckles, “mate, no, *how*— what do you even *do* with that?!“ He jostles the ice in his glass, crunching at a sharp mouthful, brows raised in encouragement to continue. Milo dimples at them, conspiratorially, at Raihan's teeth and Nessa’s eyes bright for more gossip. Leon returns from the swarmed clutch of patrons at the bar with new bevs, swaps Raihan’s melting dredges for a fresh bottle, settles in for the plot development he’s missed. Barely sat down and Raihan grabs at the back of his neck with cool glass-damp fingers, giving one good shake and scruffing him over closer as if to physically yank him back into the story. Milo preens at his redoubled audience.  
Background tracks switch to a 70's-tinged poppy groove, and Sonia and Nessa perk up at each other, pointing over the table simultaneously in the universal gesture of Oh! Hell Yes This Is Our Jam! Sonia swivels a little shimmy on her stool as the bassline drops in, knees knocking Piers' shin where he has his legs crossed toward her when she spins out too wide. He laughs, easy, kicking at her, and she clamps his leg between her knees and mouths the words at him, shimmies a bit more for performance. Piers drops his free hand to her thigh, fingers spread wide, thumb starts to tap the downbeat against her jeans. 

**

Gordie huffs his messenger bag off at the empty stool between Nessa and Sonia, dramatic, as they crow happily at his arrival. “Hullo friends, apologies for missing first lap— who's empty? I’ll grab next.” He leans round Nessa, squeezing her shoulder while he reaches for her empty glass. “Hiya sweetie, the same?" She kisses his cheek, smile and greeting warm, extra twinkle for him fetching a new round. He shuffles a slow loop the long way round the table to the bar, doling kisses and taking requests, flicks Raihan’s pick-curled bottle label shreds into his lap judgmentally. “Tch. A true mess.” Leon fully stands to do his odd little multiple-stage hug— without fail, a full sequence of shoulder-clasping to deep enveloping to a sway or two if he's feeling particularly indulgent to pulling back and rubbing hands briskly at upper arms. An unnecessarily elaborate, charmingly sincere production.  
Gordie makes to reach between where Sonia and Piers are bowed toward each other, respective crossed legs hooked into the footrail of each other's stool. They smile at him in surround sound, and he gives the thick wavy curl of Piers' ponytail two neat tugs with a free hand before heading bar-ward. He catches them listing some names— sounds like dates and line-ups for an outdoor street festival later in the year, they've all just started coordinating schedules to make a day of attending. Sonia is adamant for a earlier start, to claim good spots for the midday bump of performances; Piers is weighing the merits of this benefit against his hostility for alarm clocks. Her hands curl under his lax forearms, twirling at his stacked cuffs and bangles, and Piers' long fingers tap light down the veins of her wrists and back up to her palms, down and back, in the mindless way of someone meandering while they think. 

**

Elbows hooked between them, bumbling into each others ribs, they amble the final bricked stretch to her entry gate. Sonia slips a hand down into her large satchel, rummaging for a keyring. She pulls at their clasped hands, leveraging the momentum to draw Piers bodily closer, hugs around the small of his back instead, other arm joining belated once keys are closed in her fist. He obliges, folds arms around her shoulders. Tired, loopy buzzes start chugging down as brain gears switch to how good sleep sounds, temples pressed together and bodyweights leaning into the hug like kickstands. Sonia lifts her chin, proffering her face for a smooch. Piers smiles, cutely coy with sleepy eyes, kisses the ruddy swell of her cheek, tucks a kiss into the corner of her mouth, another square on her deep cupid’s bow. She presses warm to his lips, sweet, brings the hand laced clumsy with keys up to pet his cheek with fingertips. Arms re-squeeze a hug where they had drooped lax, embrace bookended, and she pecks the center of his soft bottom lip as they part. She keys into the fussy gate latch, reminds him to text please when he gets home. He squeezes her elbow and hums an affirmative, turns back to the walkway, lifts a small light wave and smile over his shoulder as she heads inside for the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Curious to play with this group dynamic more-- some music festival moments already exist because Dumb Loud Attractive Idiots: Sweaty Summer Edition is apparently a font of inspiration. I'd love to hear thoughts & comments & perhaps hook-ups you'd be intrigued to see!


End file.
